"And will there be absolutely nothing left for us, father? Will all mother's fortune have to go too?"
"Yes, all of hers, my dear, except a trifling sum which, thank God, is safely invested in something else. I don't know what she will say, poor thing, when she comes to learn this. No, Honor, we must make up our minds to face the worst; for even with the cursory glance I have taken into the bank affairs to-night with Hobson, I can see that when we have given up every farthing that we possess there will still be a deficiency which is perfectly frightful to contemplate. Ah! Honor, if we were the only sufferers I could begin again with a comparatively light heart; but when I think of the numbers who are ruined by the dishonesty of one scoundrel—of the hardly-earned savings of many an honest, hard-working man, all swamped, all swamped—I feel that to sit here, powerless to alleviate the sufferings of all the victims of this gigantic fraud, is enough to drive me out of my senses. Oh, if only I had known, if only I could have guessed! But for some time past Waymark has taken more and more upon himself, saying always that it was to save me trouble as my health became uncertain; and how could I tell? how could I tell?" And with a smothered sob poor Mr. Merivale's head falls forward on his arms.
"Don't, father,—don't!" says Honor, putting her arms lovingly round him and drawing his head down upon her shoulder. "The thought that no blame can possibly rest on you should be a comfort to you; and you cannot do more than you are going to do, dear father, in giving up everything you possess."
"No, dear; alas! that is all I can do. But do that I will to the uttermost farthing; and if it would only mend matters I would give the very coat from off my back only too gladly."
"Will they try to overtake Mr. Waymark, father?" presently asks Honor.
"They will try, dear, but with little hope of success, for he has too good a start to be easily found. Now, are you sure you have got those telegrams worded exactly as I dictated? Very well, then, let William take them off to the station at once. I am anxious your aunt should have hers, because I am sure she will come over and see your mother at once, and I think she will very likely be able to explain matters to her better than I can. And now, dear, leave me, and at ten o'clock bring me a cup of strong coffee with your own hands; and don't let me be disturbed by anyone until then, for I have papers to look through and writing to do which may keep me up half the night. Tell your mother this, Honor, and beg her not to be anxious about me, but to go to bed soon. Poor thing! this will be a terrible blow to her. But you must help her to bear it—you and Doris. Ah, poor little Doris!—send her to me for a minute, Honor. I should like to say a few words to her too. Molly and the others have gone to bed, I suppose?"
"Yes, some little time ago. I will bring your coffee punctually, father; and after Doris has left you I will see that no one disturbs you."
As Honor a few minutes later mounts the staircase, lost in thought, she comes suddenly upon a white-robed figure which is standing with rumpled hair and wide-open blue eyes gazing anxiously down into the hall below.
"Hush! don't say anything, Honor!" whispers the figure excitedly; "I can't stay in bed—it's no use, so I have just slipped on my dressing-gown, and here I am. O, don't send me back, Honor!" the girl adds imploringly as she sees symptoms of nervousness as to cold, &c., pass over her sister's face. "Let me go into the school-room, do. I'll be as still as a mouse, really I will, only don't ask me to go back to bed!"
"Poor Molly!" says Honor, putting an arm round her sister. Then relenting she turns down the passage towards the school-room, and pushing open the door leads her in and ensconces her in a big arm-chair by the still-smouldering fire.